


Beyond the Garden Wall

by Winterstar



Category: White Collar
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Gen, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Torture, discussion of plastination, disturbing images, hint of sexual deviance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:25:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4174662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mad artist is on the loose and Neal is his next model</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Title: Beyond the Garden Wall  
Author: dmk0064/winterstar  
Rating: R  
Warning: graphic depictions of violence, torture, discussion of plastination, hint of sexual deviance  
Summary: A mad artist is on the loose and Neal is his next model

Thank you to kanarek13 for the wonderful graphic that inspired this story. Please see it here: <http://i1108.photobucket.com/albums/h417/Kanarek13/WC%20Forum/whumped.jpg>  
  
Neal wonders why his hand doesn’t shake as he fingers the letters on the stone wall. It is a simple message he writes, elegant in its plea. He uses the only ink he has, the ink leaking out of the hole dug deep in his left shoulder. He falters, staggers a bit as he hits his head against the wall and steadies himself with a bloody hand print below his words. Stumbling, he falls back to collapse against the corner of the broken structure. He feels the rain sputtering against his skin. The coolness warms him in some strange paradox. He takes comfort in it.

There is a flash, but it isn’t lightening from the storm. He hears the low laugh. It sounds almost like a moan, a sound of perverse pleasure as the camera clicks once more. He closes his eyes again and tries not to think about the photograph as the light brightens through his lids. Will it simply be a photograph? Or will it be produced to anoil on canvas?

A touch to his hand, a gentle caress against his skin places him in a more pleasing form for the camera. The sound of breathing close to his ear sends tremors through his abused body, quakes through his tired muscles and sinew. He considers this, thinks about how he will look, flayed and open for the world to examine, admire, and critique.

Neal Caffrey, part con-man, part artist turned into art itself. He laughs a little but it comes out as a choked groan. The hand slips to his hair, plays with the dark locks and then disappears again. Though Neal hates the touch, doesn’t want the man to come near him, he longs for it at the same time. To be able to feel and experience the revulsion means he is still alive. Peter still has time to find him.

A hand clutches him under his arm and drags him away from the crumbling stone building. His feet war with one another and he cannot find his balance as the man hauls him from the cover of the building. He is sure there is something wrong with his left foot.

It isn’t much of a building really, just the ruins of an ancient arboretum or emporium. Only a partial wall still stands with weeds and grass growing over the cracked stone floor. A large opening reveals the garden beyond the wall. Neal can only see a tree and some grass, the fog shifting in the rising morning. How is there fog? It is raining, isn’t it. He can’t remember. He hopes someone sees this hidden place, this old place before the end of the day. As the fog lifts and the sun grows in intensity, Neal knows he only has so much time left. The rain is gone.

His murder is scheduled for sunset.

*oOoOoOoOo*  
Twenty hours earlier  
Peter sighs and glances at his coffee, or what is passing for coffee in his FBI mug. He turns the cup a bit and watches as the liquid flows, but it doesn’t swirl right, too thick and too cold to really be considered in the liquid phase. It might be transitioning to some cold phase of plasma, if that is even possible. He raises an eyebrow and tells himself it isn’t, but that still leaves the question of what exactly is in his mug.

A light whistle sings through the air and brings him back to the case files laid out on the conference room table. Neal stands a slight distance away; his hat perched on his head as if he just walked out of a movie, Ocean’s Eleven – the original.

Peter snickers and Neal opens his arms wide, smiles, and says, “What?”

Placing the mug down on the table and shaking his head, Peter says, “Nothing, nothing important.”

“But we have a case?” Neal pops the hat of his head with a flip and a twist of the apparel and Peter wonders if the man is ever off, ever not on. “Other than that spectacular mortgage fraud, which is just so interesting and garners so much of my -.”

Peter stops him. “We have a case.”

“Oh thank God,” Neal says and grins. “Not that mortgage-.”

“Stop, Neal, even you can’t make mortgage fraud interesting.”

“Wanna bet?” Neal glances up from his study of the photographs strewn over the conference table.

“Is everything a challenge with you?” Neal offers him an open smile then, an expression of pure abandon. “Don’t answer that.” Peter gestures to the photographs. “Let’s just focus.”

Diana and Jones join them in the conference room. Diana slips into a chair next to Neal while Jones sits down in the chair next to the computer. The middle of the afternoon throws the sun’s rays over the table, bringing it to a high shine while causing the screen and the computer to bleach out.

“This looks pretty gruesome, boss, why are we involved?” Diana shuffles through the photographs laid out on the table as Neal picks up a few and frowns.

“Neal?”

“Similar to Gunther von Hagens work but definitely not as well done or even complete. You can tell that the bodies haven’t been through the entire treatment,” Neal says and looks up to Peter. “Peter, what’s this about?”

“About two years ago a flash mob appeared at a site where the poster said a seminal art show would occur.” Peter pulls out the photos of the warehouse. “An abandon warehouse out in Buffalo, New York. It was on the waterfront, about a hundred or so people showed up and they found this.” He shows them a photo in the file.

It is a human body, stripped of all clothes and skin. The body is posed as if the woman is praying, on her knees and the eyeballs looking upwards toward the sky. Her hands are folded together. There are several easels set about the room. Before they can ask about the easels, Peter yanks out the photos to show them the pictures.

Jones huffs and turns away. Diana sits back as if she doesn’t want to really look at them. To Peter’s surprise, Neal examines them. “She was alive when these were taken, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, she was,” Peter says. “Her murderer and the murderer of four others always spent time to torture his victims, photograph them, and allow them to send a message in at least one of the photos. Most of the time it is a plea for help.”

“What’s this about?” Jones asks as he relents and glares at the photographs. Jones doesn’t like violent crime. He doesn’t investigate it because he hates the thought of people suffering so much at the hands of psychopaths.

Peter says, “Violent crimes brought us in. They’ve been looking into this maniac for two years. He seems to kidnap his victims, torture them, take photographs of their deteriorating state, then he does this to them.” Peter points to the photo of the praying corpse.

“The techniques of von Hagens are difficult and take time. The plastination has to be performed in a vacuum so the plastics can permeate all the tissues and organs of the body. This isn’t a simple parlor trick,” Neal adds.

“Can someone tell me who von Hagens is and why he isn’t in a prison somewhere?” Diana asks.

“Gunther von Hagens is an artist known for Body Works also called Body Worlds. He’s German and uses a synthetic resin to preserve human flesh. He’s an anatomist, really not an artist at all. There’s a lot of controversy about his work and where he gets the bodies.” Neal says. “It’s a time consuming process with four steps. This guy isn’t even close to it.”

Neal points at the frozen female corpse. “You can see the removal of the skin wasn’t done properly or completely and there are tears everywhere. Looks more like he shellacked them.” Neal swallows once and it is the first time Peter realizes this does bother him. “I don’t even think he used the proper method to leach out the water from the tissues. It looks like it is decomposing here.”

“Regardless, he’s done it four more times in two different states.” Peter says. “They want us in on it because they think this guy looks at himself as if he is an artist. People keep showing up to these anonymous tweets and posts because it is a hit on the internet.”

“People are sick.” Diana stands and starts filing through the images.

“Flash mob mentality isn’t something to play with.” Jones adds.

“So, violent crimes is looking for help. They think their suspect is in town.” Peter opens up another file folder and puts the photo on the table. “His name is Lew Saunders but he goes by Lucifer’s Angel in the art world. Right now, they don’t have anything to convict him on or even arrest him.”

“I know of him. Not a good artist at all. He’s had several shows and they’ve all tanked,” Neal says. “So, he’s turned into some psychopath?”

“The leap from genius to psychopath isn’t far,” Diana murmurs.

“I don’t think he was ever a genius,” Neal comments but continues to hold the photo of the dead young woman. “So, how are we helping out?”

“Lew is looking for a young Adonis,” Peter says. Behind the photos of Saunders is a flyer. “This has been posted all over the lower West side.”

“He uses the internet to advertise his show, but looks for a model the old fashion way?” Jones says.

“Keeps it local and more controlled,” Peter says. “You think you can do it?”

Neal scans the grotesque figures, the women and men Saunders’ has killed. “I think, yeah, sure.”

“You’ll go in without the anklet or wire,” Peter notes.

“I understand modeling, Peter,” Neal says. “I’ve done it before.”

“You have?” Diana looks up at Jones’ question. She chuckles as his color deepens. There is a squeak in his voice.

“You’ll have the watch and we’ll be in the van listening in,” Peter says, though he feels the confidence leaking out of his voice.

“It looks like its set for today,” Neal smiles. “Too bad I didn’t have time for a tan.”

Peter rolls his eyes and a rumble growls out of his throat as Jones looks everywhere but at Neal. Diana seems to be the only one other than Neal comfortable in the room. As Neal walks out of the conference room with both Diana and Jones following him, Peter gazes once more at the horrendous artistic expression laid out before him. When does horror become art and why do people stop and stare?

He shivers and he thinks of Neal in the Saunders’ clutches though he does agree with the killer on one thing. He is truly Lucifer’s Angel.

*oOoOoOoOo*  
Neal put up a fight, he slammed his fist into Saunders’ jaw and his forward momentum brought him to his knees. It was a fatal error as the Angel of the art world tackled him and bashed his head against the concrete of the warehouse floor. Neal isn’t sure how Saunders got him out of the warehouse; he isn’t sure how Peter and the van lost him. He only knows that Saunders has taken the day to tease and torment him. To dig away at his flesh and open up wounds to splatter over his shirt.

The photo shoot began in earnest once Neal’s bruises and blood melded into perfect hues. Saunders half drags, half carries Neal across Manhattan in pursuit of the flawless shot. Anytime Neal becomes aware, Saunders delivers another fist to his face or kick to his cracked ribs. Blood congeals in his hair and the rain stings the cuts and slashes.

Saunders throws him down in a mud puddle and he fumbles to get up. The camera clicks again as the sound of near ecstasy escapes from him murderer’s lips. He hears the distinct moans of the man and it reminds Neal of someone about to orgasm. He flinches and closes his eyes. The photo flashes continue.

“I liked the writing on the wall,” Saunders says. He has a distinct nasal sound to his voice. Neal places him from South Buffalo. He’d spent time there some years ago on a job that concerned Mercy nuns and the impersonation of a Priest. “You did so good. This will be my best yet.”

He seizes Neal’s collar and tows him to a parked van. It looks like it was a delivery truck for a local grocer. Neal is fairly certain his left foot is broken; a baseball bat will do that. He giggles a bit as he thinks of the movie, My Left Foot. Well, his left foot is good for nothing.

“Getting late and the mob will be there in only a few hours,” Saunders says. “I gotta start the process ASAP.”

“Few hours?” Neal stutters out the words and the air in his lungs leaves him. “I can help you with that, Lew, really we should talk about this.”

As Saunders tosses Neal into the van bed and yanks the cords about his wrists and ankles tight, he looks up into the air and says, “Best yet, the Fall of Adonis. Just beautiful. Should I cut out your heart or slice open your throat? But then you know Adonis was killed by a wild boar, so maybe the heart thing will work?”

“It could be so much better, Lew,” Neal says. “We could get a boar or a pig. Do the work on it first.” This will give Peter time to find him. “I’ll show you some of what von Hagens does.”

The fist isn’t as surprising as Neal would have thought. It crashes into his cheekbone and eye. Blood suffuses into his mouth and he’s sure one of his teeth has been knocked loose.

“Von Hagens no artist. I am. Shut the fuck up.” He stops and pulls closed the van door. His hand is tender on Neal’s injured face. “You can’t understand. No one can. The beauty inside me, it just boils up into this rage, you know. I gotta get it out. I’m gonna get it out this time. This time will be different. This time it will work.”

Neal manages to keep his wits and asks, “It will work?”

“You’ll be the perfect one, the one to make it all stop. Once I turn you into the perfect statue, they’ll remember me.” He slides his hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out a knife. He presses the knife to Neal’s carotid artery. “Maybe I cut you here so that you can bleed out before we get back. It might save me some time.”

The rope is abrasive and won’t give as Neal works his hands behind his back. He shifts away from Saunders as the man nicks his throat. His breathing comes in shallow pants in contrast to the deep, nearly content inhalations of his captor.

Something stops Saunders from scraping the knife deeper into Neal’s throat. He looks up as if he’s heard a noise. “No time, no time,” he whispers and glances back down at Neal. “Got to go.” He flips the knife up and starts to hunch over Neal as if he means to make his way to the driver’s seat.

He focuses on Neal once again, his smile softens. The knife impales Neal in his left shoulder, opening wide the hole Saunders dug out earlier. As Neal screams, the man gulps in a breath and grabs hold of his own crotch. He shudders once and Neal looks away, biting back the bile in his throat.

“My best work yet,” Saunders says as he leans down and breathes over Neal’s mouth.

Only a strangulated moan issues from Neal’s lips as he silently wishes for Peter to find him.

TBC [Part 2](http://winterstar95.livejournal.com/23398.html)  


A/N: For more on von Hagens please see: <http://www.bodyworlds.com/en/gunther_von_hagens/life_in_science.html> It is pretty shocking, so please do not look if you are not ready to see some very disturbing images.


	2. Chapter 2

The violent crime guy, is his name Wilson or Watson – Peter isn’t sure, holds little hope for recovery of Neal alive. He taps a rhythm on the conference table. It hurts to even think of Neal in the clutches of that mad man and here this idiot gets high on the idea. If Peter didn’t know better he would think the man was on the edge of becoming a psychopathic killer himself.

Diana walks into the conference room. She doesn’t look like her normal self. The cool confidence, the air of pissed off FBI agent disintegrates as she succumbs to the hours of searching without any promise of a new lead. He damns himself for sending Neal in alone with just a rigged watch as his lifeline. The lifeline was found crushes with a hammer. The hammer had blood on it.

“Boss?” Diana says.

“What?” His reply is too rough, too stressed but she doesn’t react, instead she pulls out files.

“It looks like the Washington behavioral unit came through. They sent us a profile and it doesn’t look very good. Sexual deviant, psychopathic killer.” Diana hands the analysis to him.

“Crack unit, those bastards in DC.” Wilson or Watson or Idiot brain says. “I figured that one out a while ago.”

Diana stares him down and says, “All by yourself or did you ask your mama to do your homework.”

“Agent Burke,” Idiot whines.

Peter shakes his head and tells him, “Get out of my sight.” 

“Agent!” 

“Really, get out of my sight before I have her get you out of my sight,” Peter orders, the threat is only half sham. He truly wants to let Diana loose on someone, preferably Saunders but the ass in front of him will make a nice target as well. The agent frowns, pokes the table a few more times, then relents and leaves the conference room. “Useless piece of sh-.”

“I think we got something,” Jones says as he hustles into the room. He swings around the table and clicks open the laptop. He works the keyboard, his fingers flying.

In only seconds he spins the screen around to show Peter and it is all Peter can do to stop himself from cringing. His heart thumps deep in his chest and the air gathers in his lungs like a rock. He exhales and finds equilibrium as he views Neal’s slumped body next to a stone wall. 

“Is it real? Do we know it’s real?” Diana is asking.

“The IT guys are checking now, but we think it is. It was posted anonymously on a site known to elicit support for flash mobs.” Jones adds, “We also found a tweet posted this morning about a new exclusive art show for Lucifer’s Angel. It was posted not an hour after we lost contact with Neal.”

“Did we trace the IP address?”

Jones grimaces as if just the thought hurts. “No good. He’s using proxies. He has it going through tumblr, expat, hotshield, a bunch. We’ve contacted all of them, but it will take time. He uses different combos every time.”

“Where is the art show?” Peter asks as he gazes at Neal’s battered face, the bloodied knuckles. 

“Not far from where Neal met Saunders,” Jones says and stretches to reach the map of Manhattan laid out on the table. “We can’t wait until then to get Saunders. Neal will be dead.”

Jones looks wan, the worried lines crease his otherwise baby face. Peter nods. “Yes, yes. But it seems Saunders has a base of operation. Obviously, not where he met Neal, but also not at the art show site, either.”

He looks up at Diana. “Neal said something about acetone. Using a tub of acetone to leach out the moisture from the body. You’d need a lot of acetone for that.”

“At least a bath tub full,” Diana says. “Not your normal amount of nail polish remover. I’ll call around, see if there have been any new orders for a hundred or so gallons of acetone.” She leaves the room and Peter watches her for a second.

He needs to see her, he needs to see Jones. He needs them around him, to know that they are doing everything to get Neal, to save Neal. The memory of Neal’s slight exhale as they lost contact still haunts him. Even as they swarmed the place, the old store front, Peter knew Saunders was one step ahead of them. He saw the watch crushed and discarded. He watched as his agents raced everywhere except in the old freezer of the store in search of Neal. It took less than five minutes for Peter to realize they missed him completely. It took another five seconds for Peter to step backwards and looked at the rusted metal door. 

There were flakes of rust peppering the scarred linoleum floor. The rust arched outward as it followed the sweep of the door. Peter tugged it open and it protested but not as much as it should have. There was another door at the back of the old broken freezer, a loading door. There was only one clue Neal had been there.

A single hand print smeared across the door hinge as if he was trying to lead a bread crumb trail but with his own blood. 

Peter turns back to the picture on the computer screen. He studies it for any clues. Neal’s left shoulder is bloody, his right hand looks like he got a good punch in. His face colors with bruises. Peter leans down and looks at the writing on the wall. 

Find me Peter.

He presses his lips together as he realizes there is another bloody print on the wall. Under the hole in the stone wall, there is a splotch of red with smaller dots. Is it a code? Is it a map? Is it just the smudge of a man about to die?

He swears and covers his eyes with his hand for a moment. He needs to think, he needs to concentrate. Neal cannot afford for him to derail and falter. 

He drops his hand and looks at Jones. He lifts his chin to the agent and says, “What is that thing Neal is in? It was raining this morning, right?”

“There are hooks on the side, a cracked ceiling, trees beyond it. Looks like it might be in park or something.” Jones hunches over the computer screen, using his finger to indicate the different details.

“Cross reference this image with anything in the database on parks, structures, botanical gardens, anything,” Peter says. “The structure is the key. It looks like it was built circa late 1800s. Look into renovations, historical landmarks.”

Jones starts accessing as Peter speaks. He doesn’t look up again, his mind is focused. That is where Peter needs him to be, focused with one goal in his head. Peter walks out of the conference room, passes his office. He talks only briefly with Hughes to update him on the search. He stops to discuss the case with several of the junior agents until he is able to escape. He finds the bathrooms.

The men’s room is blessedly empty. He stumbles to the stall, collapsing to his knees as he vomits. The image of the woman’s eyes, devoid of their lids keeps plaguing him. He sees Saunders peel away Neal’s skin, his eyelids, and his stomach lurches as bile burns his throat again.

*oOoOoOoOo*  
Weight on his foot sends fire up his leg and through his alarmed nerves. He staggers and wrenches back on his tied wrists as Saunders drags him down the steps into the low basement. The stress on his shoulder joint as Saunders heaves against his struggles makes him scream, squeezes his eyes closed. He doesn’t care if he dislocates a shoulder, who the hell cares about a dislocated shoulder when his heart is about to be cut out. 

Saunders yanks the rope and Neal tumbles backwards down the wooden stairs. The last step is missing and Neal catches his left foot in the slat. He slams down on to the cold concrete floor of the basement, seeing flashes of brilliant light. He gathers his wits as Saunders grabs hold of his tied arms and drags him toward the middle of the basement. 

“I don’t have time for this shit,” Saunders curses as he hauls back and punches Neal in the face. Blood fountains out of his nostrils and down his throat. He gags and spits as Saunders hits him in the chest. He hears the buttons of his shirt tear and pop off before he feels it being ripped from him. “I don’t got time. I got to get your heart out and your skin off before six. I need you in the bath by then. I can dry you up for a few hours before I paint you, but I ain’t got time for you to fight me. Shows at midnight.”

It suddenly occurs to Neal he doesn’t have the strength or the weight to fight off Saunders. His captor is a large man with thick sausage like fingers and fists the size of cantaloupes. He must hit the scales at near 250 or 275 pounds. Neal’s lean form can never out muscle him. He has only one option.

“Let me help you,” Neal mumbles. His lips are swollen and hurt.

Saunders just laughs at him as he strips him of his pants using a knife to slice them off. 

“I can help. You aren’t letting me help you.” Neal blinks the blood out of his eyes and says,” I won’t struggle, I won’t do anything to escape. I don’t want my last hours to be painful. Just please.” He stops and sighs. “I’m an artist, too. I understand how it is. If you want to make me into art, perhaps we can be famous together. The artist and his creation.” Neal keeps his gaze steady, true, and soft. He makes sure to secure any threat deep inside where Saunders cannot find it.

Peter, help me.

Peter, find me.

He folds the pleas away, a prayer for another day.

Saunders considers him. “No funny stuff.”

“I want to be famous, too. If this is the way, let me help you,” Neal says. He offers a small smile. It reminds him of a smile he gave to his father once, a gentle wish. 

Saunders takes it in, imbibes it like he quenches a long thirst. He helps Neal into a sitting position. He cuts the ropes around Neal’s wrists. Without any fast movements, Neal brings his wrists to the front and rubs at the soreness, the scratch marks.

“What do you need me to do?”

The light from the single bulb in the ceiling is bright and cold. It illuminates the work room. There is a steel table in the middle of the room; a bag of tools sits next to it. A spray gun and a canister are under the table. Across from the stairs sits a footed bath tub and a number of large amber glass jugs. Neal has seen similar bottles in chemical laboratories. A spigot is in the opposite corner of the basement with a hose attached it and a drain in the floor. 

“Fill up the tub with the acetone. Once you do that, I can clean you off and get the show on the road.” Saunders indicates the jugs and the bath tub. Neal nods and works his way over to the bottles. He limps and slides his broken foot across the floor.

Saunders watches Neal for a moment, observing his actions, testing him. He goes up the stairs and padlocks the door, slipping the key to the lock into his front pants pocket. Plugging the drain, Neal starts to fill the tub with the foul smelling liquid. 

Saunders joins him and unscrews the caps of the bottles. He pours a few of the bottles in as he eyes Neal. It is all part of the test, Neal knows this. In a few minutes, Saunders abandons his chore and sets up shop near the steel table. He opens up a small folding table, more like an old fashion TV dinner tray near the main table. He lays out the tools of his trade. There are knives and ugly things there. Neal only turns once to watch him, but continues his task. He needs to build trust fast. 

Mozzie once talked about the last con, the big one. Neal realizes this is his biggest con ever and he cannot fail. He doesn’t permit any further thought on the matter. He cannot. It is taking all of his will not to allow the terror to show, not to allow the tremors to disable him.

Saunders calls him over before he is finished, but he doesn’t argue. He gages Saunders mood, his interest in the art form and in Neal. Standing near the faucet, Saunders orders Neal to take off his boxers. Without hesitating, Neal follows direction. He swallows hard and bites back the hiss as the cold water blasts over his wounds. The knife wound in his shoulder still weeps blood even though Saunders used some kind of epoxy to glue the flesh together. The world tilts momentarily and Neal grabs for a beam in the basement to hold himself up. 

Saunders expression glitters in the light, the water spray giving him a sheen that glows with his eyes. He picks at the wounds on Neal’s head, pulling at the tangles. Neal closes his eyes and bites back a moan. He cannot keep his eyes closed for very long. The dizziness spins and tightens his stomach to rebellion. He chokes back the need to vomit and looks away as Saunders tears at the epoxy.

“Get me some of the acetone and I’ll open this up.” 

Neal falls forward as if he is about to follow the command. His hand hits Saunders’ pants and then he distracts by crumpling to the floor. He stays on the floor, his hand curled underneath him, hiding the key. 

“You’re just about done,” His captor leans down. He touches Neal’s wet hair and strokes his forehead. “Don’t you worry, I’m here. We’ll be famous together.” Saunders bends over Neal and touches his lips to his forehead. He slides his arms under Neal and cradles him against his broad chest as he lays him on the table. “Just gonna open you up now. Split open your chest, flay away the skin. It ain’t gonna take long. I promise, you’ll only feel a bit of pain. You’ll scream for me, right. A good scream, right?”

Neal heaves in breath but it doesn’t feel like he is getting anything to fill his starved lungs. He nods to the man but fists his hand and remembers the key. One of Saunders’ hand is petting Neal, touching his wound, the other is down his own pants. 

Neal only has this moment, this solitary moment to act.

“Loud, it will be loud, right?” Saunders grins and pants as he gloats at Neal. Sweat mixes with the water dripping down his face. “Show me, Adonis, how loud. Make it loud for me.”

“This loud, you son of a bitch,” Neal screams and throws his fist hard against Saunders’ jaw.

He staggers backward and Neal jumps off the table. He rushes to the steps, not listening to the screeches of his splintered left foot. Climbing the stairs, he peers over his shoulder to see Saunders scrambling after him. The mad artist growls and spits at Neal as he tries to work the lock. His fingers feel numb and his heart strangles him. He can barely see the keyhole but the key finds it way home and the lock falls open.

Pushing the door, Neal clambers up the last steps. Saunders catches his ankle and bashes his injured foot against the edge of the stair. Neal shrieks but still kicks out at his attacker with his other foot. He takes the key and stabs it at Saunders’ face, aiming for his eye. 

“Down, Neal, down.”

Neal drops to the floor as the crack of gunfire splits open the air. The splatter of brain matter and skull fragments burst over the staircase. Saunders pitches back into the basement, releasing Neal.  
Neal turns and looks over his shoulder. Peter stands in the old kitchen with his gun in his hand. Diana and Jones are behind him. The smell of gunfire permeates the air. Neal catches his breath, quavering, as Peter rushes to his side.

“You’re okay, you’re going to be okay,” Peter says and calls out, “Let the paramedics in.”

“Can I have some pants?” Neal asks and Diana tosses Peter a kitchen towel. He frowns but covers himself with it anyway. In seconds, Peter bundles his FBI jacket under Neal’s head and moves away as the paramedics settle in to take care of him.

*oOoOoOoOo*  
Neal opens the New York Times and frowns. There is an advertisement for Body Worlds and he flips the page closed. His foot is perched on a stool near the couch and his tea is only an arm length away. June has her staff check up on him and tend to his needs when she is away from the house, though she has a tendency to stay very close these days.

A rap on the door draws Neal’s attention away from the paper. “Come.”

Peter enters and smiles as he sees Neal has ventured forth from his bed today. “Progress!” Peter lifts a canvas bag filled with goodies from Elizabeth. “Hungry?”

“Actually, very much,” Neal smiles and leans to put the paper away. His appetite has been missing of late.

“More progress,” Peter says as he busies himself in the kitchen. The clatters from the kitchen area soothe him and he smiles again as Peter places the meal before him. 

He turns back to Peter and says, “How’d you find me? You never told me. He won’t let me give you any hints.”

“You gave us a very big hint,” Peter says. “Remember when you talked about the plastination process?”

Neal nods. He recalls discussing the procedure at length as they drove to the place he was to meet Saunders. The four step process, the permeation of the plastic within the dried tissues of a corpse. He shivers as he thinks about it. 

“Well, it doesn’t escape the NYPD’s notice when large amounts of acetone are delivered to a private address. That and the fact Jones figured out Saunders had a great Aunt in the city. She’d just died. She’d put in for historical landmark for her property because of the arboretum in the back of her house.” Peter starts cutting the deli sandwiches. “Sometimes you put two and two together; we FBI agents actually come up with four.”

“I’m glad you did, Peter,” Neal says. His voice is low and tremulous. “He wasn’t an artist.”

“No, Neal, not even close.” Peter stops his preparations for their lunch. “You are, you know that right?”

Neal offers him a smile but it fails and he cups his hands in the large pockets of his robe. “I think so, maybe.”

Peter sits up and stares at Neal. “That man couldn’t see the beauty, Neal. He couldn’t see it beyond his own desires and wants. You do.”

Neal bows his head and then looks up. “Maybe.”

“Neal, you can see beyond the walls,” Peter says. “That is what makes you who you are. You might use this for the con, but really Neal, it is a talent. You can see beyond the garden wall and into the garden itself.”

Peter touches his shoulder and pats him. “Someday you’ll see, someday, Neal. You’ll understand.”

And Neal thinks maybe he does.

THE END


End file.
